


witcher promptfics

by julek



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Warnings and tags in each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 10,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26252554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julek/pseuds/julek
Summary: a series of ficlets based offtumblrprompts!
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 73





	1. songbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from valdomarx: #58. “oh, my ankle! i think it must be broken!” *wink wink* (geralt/jaskier).

jaskier prided himself in being a worldly person. the continent stretched on for miles and miles, and he had seen most of it during his travels. he was well acquainted with royal courts and breathtaking estates, small inns and forest floors. simply put, little could surprise him.

wintering at kaer morhen with geralt and his brothers was a first, though.

he had followed geralt up the dangerously narrow path up to the keep, and then down again, when vesemir had tasked them with getting provisions for the winter. they’d been walking around the small town for hours, trying to find everything on the old witcher’s list. at last, their cart was overflowing with supplies.

they made their way up the mountain _again_ —but for the last time, at least until the early days of spring. geralt had already informed jaskier that in a few weeks, snow would cover the trail, and they wouldn’t be able to leave the keep. they walked side by side, with roach behind them, pulling the cart. 

“how much longer? i would really appreciate _not_ dying on this path,” jaskier said, taking a bite out of the apple he’d been sharing with roach. “it _is_ called the killer for a reason, i’m guessing.”

geralt rolled his eyes, partly to smother the fond look on his face. “just a few more miles. we’ll be there before sundown.”

they moved on, and soon enough they reached the old ruin. geralt took roach to the stables, while jaskier began unloading their provisions. 

he was in the process of carrying a particularly heavy bag of grains, when he heard a lark singing. he stood in the middle of the courtyard, bag propped on his shoulders, and tried to locate the bird. he took a few steps forward, looking up at the trees, until he saw it. perched on a branch, the small bird filled the afternoon with its song. 

jaskier moved closer, careful as not to startle the songbird. they were so rare for the area, especially this close to winter, and if jaskier could just get a closer look—

“ah, fuck!” he cried, falling to the ground with a loud thud. he’d stumbled across a log, which had definitely _not_ been there before, the bag laying next to him on the floor. 

“jaskier?” geralt approached him, crouching down next to him. “come, up.”

placing his hands on the ground, jaskier tried to stand, when a sharp bolt of pain ran through his left foot.

“oh, my ankle!” he said, placing his arm to his forehead in dismay, channelling his inner fainting damsel. “i think it must be broken!”

geralt huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

“you must carry me geralt, i don’t think i can walk,” he lamented, closing his eyes for the full effect. “sweet melitele, what if i _never_ walk again? what will i _do_ , geralt? what will become of my deliciously sculpted body, my—”

jaskier yelped in surprise, as geralt scooped him up in his arms, carrying him bridal-style. they made their way across the courtyard into the kitchen, where vesemir had watched the scene unfold, one eyebrow raised, a small smile on his lips.

“ _there,_ princess,” geralt said, smirking. he could feel jaskier smiling against his neck, face flushed red.

geralt placed him on a chair next to the table, trying to detangle himself from jaskier’s limbs, but before he could pull away, jaskier pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“my hero!” he beamed, eyes twinkling. 

-

later that night, jaskier’s new song inspired by his bravery and geralt’s chivalry had eskel and lambert doubling over with laughter. 


	2. warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from 221bsunsettowers: #88. the one stumbling to the other’s front door after getting hurt/beaten up. (geralt/jaskier).

another contract, another small, austere inn. the town cemetery had been terrorized by a couple necrophages for weeks, and geralt’s presence had been a relief for the townsfolk, who had promised to pay accordingly. 

jaskier sat on the small bed, legs crossed and lute propped on his lap. geralt had told him to stay put, and for whatever reason, he had _actually_ listened, instead of going through their usual routine: geralt telling jaskier to stay, jaskier nodding in agreement, only to trail after the witcher the minute he walked out the door.

no, tonight, jaskier had stayed. he’d been going over some songs that needed revision, replacing some lines and humming new ones. he was so concentrated on a certain line— _gorgeous garroter? lovely garroter?_ — that he almost didn’t hear the heavy knock on his door.

setting his lute aside, jaskier got up, surprised to see that daylight had died a long time ago, moonshine coming through the translucid curtains that adorned the window. his heart skipped a beat. geralt had said he’d be back before dinner, so where was he? before he had time to panic, the object of his thoughts stumbled through the door. 

“geralt,” jaskier said, already moving towards what looked like a very unstable, _very_ injured witcher. “are you okay? what—here, sit down,” he motioned to the chair in the corner of the room.

geralt inhaled sharply as he sat down, and tried to unbuckle his armor, only to have his hands swatted away. “what happened?” jaskier said softly, crouching down beside him, looking into his eyes with intent. 

“wasn’t _a couple_ necrophages,” he spat. “fucking thirteen of them.”

jaskier made quick use of his fingers, and in a matter of seconds, geralt’s armor had come off. he checked geralt’s sides for injuries, and found only a couple superficial cuts. relieved, he put his hands on geralt’s shoulders, steadying him. 

“bastards,” he said, shaking his head. “first, they try to make us sleep in the forest” —the innkeeper hadn’t been happy to rent geralt a room, but jaskier had charmed his way through— ”and now, they _lie_ to you. to you! the witcher they _hired_ to save their stupid town!”

geralt grunted in reply. _fuck_ , he was tired. thirteen necrophages weren’t a big contract, but it had been an unpleasant surprise, taking into consideration he had prepared his blades for two. now he was a mess, hair tangled and caked with blood, muscles burning. 

“—i’ll go and talk to the alderman myself! who do these people think they are, treating you like this? you could’ve died!” jaskier, ever the dramatic, was already offended on his behalf. “they better pay you what you’re truly owed, otherwise—”

jaskier’s rage was interrupted by geralt pressing his forehead to his chest. his fingers immediately, almost naturally, found their way to geralt’s shoulders, rubbing small circles on his blood-soaked shirt, feeling the muscles relax.

“are you okay, dear?”

“hmm.” geralt pressed his head to jaskier’s stomach, now facing the wall. he closed his eyes, basking in the quietude of the moment. “before you torch the alderman’s house…”

“yes? what can i do?” jaskier asked softly, his hands warm on geralt’s neck. 

“stay here.” geralt lifted jaskier’s shirt a little, and pressed a kiss to the warm skin of his stomach.

“of course, love.”


	3. komorebi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: #44. twirling a strand of their hair. (geralt/jaskier).

jaskier _hated_ summer.

okay, no—summer was okay. summer was lovely, actually, painting the sky with beautiful sunsets and making the trees and flowers bloom, a great source of inspiration for a love ballad. summer also meant festivals, and endless rounds of ale while dancing to the music.

all in all, summer was alright. except for the heat.

jaskier could not stand it. he’d wake up in the mornings to find his clothes damp with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. walking under the burning sun for hours on end was torture, his pale skin turning golden brown in no time. jaskier had always thought of himself as highly adaptable—and he was—but he was simply not built for heat.

geralt, on the other hand, didn’t have such issues. he could walk next to roach for days while wearing his black armor and still he’d never even break a sweat. jaskier had asked him about it the first summer they spent together, and the answer had been a simple _witcher mutations_. bastard.

it was a sunny afternoon when jaskier had decided he’d had enough. they had left rinde early in the morning, and he’d been sweating profusely through his clothes ever since they had stepped out of the inn.

“geralt, for the love of sweet, merciful melitele, will you please, _please_ tell me there’s a stream nearby?” he whined. “doesn’t even have to be a stream. just a puddle of fresh water. a droplet, even. i know you and your witchery senses can hear courses of water.”

geralt took his eyes off the road to look at him, and he must have looked a sweaty mess, because geralt’s eyes softened and he nodded.

“there’s a stream a few minutes down this road,” he said, his nostrils flaring. “my witchery senses tell me you need a bath, too.”

jaskier spluttered in indignance, but the heat had melted his brain some hours ago, and he couldn’t think of a proper comeback.

they walked off the road, and geralt tethered roach to a tree. not far from there, jaskier caught a glimpse of running water.

“thank the _gods_.” he quickly stripped down to his smallclothes, and jumped into the stream.

geralt sat on a rock in the shade, where a nice breeze was swifting through. he closed his eyes for a second, enjoying the serendipity of the moment.

then, jaskier came up gasping for air. his body was dripping wet, but the bard had a pleasant smile on his face, and geralt couldn’t help but smile back at him.

jaskier walked over to geralt, sitting next to him on the grass, leaning back on his elbows. he closed his eyes, humming softly under his breath. geralt took him in, the broad expanse of his back dusted with freckles, his outgrown hair sticking to his forehead.

suddenly, without giving it much thought, geralt reached out to him and wrapped his thumb and forefinger around one long curl. jaskier opened his eyes, curious, and geralt gently twirled the brown strand of hair in his fingers.

“it’s gotten horribly long, i know,” he said, scrunching up his nose. “long hair does _not_ suit me. don’t you think?”

geralt tugged gently before letting go.

“hmm.”


	4. strawberry daiquiri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: #7. “i look at him/her/them and i just… it’s like when the grinch’s heart grows three sizes.” (geralt/jaskier - modern AU).

it’s a quiet night at the bar. 

eskel’s almost done with his second shift for the day, covering for lambert, who’d called in sick— _i have a fever, i don’t think i’ll make it tonight_ , he’d fake-coughed—and he leans back against the bar, pouring himself a drink. 

out of the corner of his eye, he sees a tall figure enter the room. tell-tale white hair up in a messy bun, black leather jacket. eskel smirks as geralt approaches the bar, pulling out a stool. 

“my shift’s about to end,” he groans, still he turns around to grab a cool beer from one of the fridges behind him.

“not that,” geralt says in greeting, pushing his forehead against the surface of the table. “i need the good stuff.”

“ _ooh_ ,” eskel sing-songs. “shit day?”

geralt grunts in reply, lifting his head to face him, his eyes narrowed. like this, eskel can see the bags under his eyes, the lines crossing his face.

“you _do_ look like shit, man.” he turns to the bar and starts mixing a drink for him.

geralt snorts. “thanks,” he says, rubbing his face with one hand. “i can’t believe this is happening to me.”

 _this_ , eskel knew, meant jaskier, geralt’s new coworker at the gym. he’d first heard about him three months ago, when geralt had stumbled into the bar with a mortified look on his face, muttering something about dropping some weights on his feet because something—someone—had distracted him.

eskel pours the drink in a cocktail glass, and slides it over the counter. “your cosmo, pretty boy.” geralt mutters his thanks, and takes a large gulp of the drink. “i’ve never seen you like this, either. he got you bad.”

geralt huffs in a breath. “it’s just—do you know what he did today?” he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “he started doing pushups during his break. his _break_. out there, for all of us to see. i think he was showing off, i think he’s got a thing for lauren—i’m not sure though.” 

“you sound like a twelve-year-old, geralt,” eskel says, failing to hide his smile. “just ask him out for a drink. you can come here, i’ll even play nice.”

“sure you will.”

“i mean it. whatever it takes for you to stop moping around my bar,” he says, looking around. “you’re scaring off the customers, man.”

“god, it’s just” —he takes a sip of his drink, the vodka cold on his mouth— “he’s _so_ happy all the time. that can’t be real, right? must be a medical condition or something, no one can go around the entire day with a big stupid smile on their faces like he does.” 

eskel hums, mentally counting just how many times they’ve had this conversation.

“and i… okay, it’s like this. i’ll be doing my stuff, minding my own business, and i’ll take one look at him and i just… it’s like when the grinch’s heart grows three sizes.”

eskel perks up at that. it’s nothing geralt’s said before. sure, he’s gone on and on about jaskier’s eyes, his arms, his _thighs, eskel_ , but never like this. 

“wait a second,” he says, leaning on the bar, facing geralt, who looks as miserable as he’s ever seen him. “this isn’t some common crush. you _like_ him!” he says, grinning. oh, geralt’s never gonna live this down.

geralt looks at his empty glass. “i’m an idiot.” 

eskel hums in agreement and wipes down the table. they’re silent for a moment, until eskel hears the door swing open.

“strawberry daiquiri, if you would be so kind.” the newcomer says to eskel, and takes a seat next to geralt, who, by the look on his face, is going through the five stages of grief all at once. “oh, hi, geralt! i didn’t know you came here too.”

“coming right up.” eskel shoots him a look and turns around so jaskier can’t see him laugh. 

it’s gonna be an interesting night.


	5. waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from permanently-exhausted-witcher: #82. “i can finally understand why you call them your arch-nemesis… what. a. dick.” (geralt/jaskier).

the coast is beautiful.

jaskier can taste the salt in the air, the wind tousling his hair and painting his cheeks light red, as he and geralt sit side by side on the grass, near the cliff’s edge.

it had been a coincidence, really, that they were in cidaris just in time for the summer festival. geralt had been bargaining with the innkeeper for a room and a bath, when a very enthusiastic barmaid had shoved a leaflet into his hands, while chattering about the upcoming summer festivities. a long time ago, geralt would have scoffed, ignoring the invitation, but that was before he had a colorful bard by his side. 

geralt takes in the stunning view, the soft pink sky reflecting on the sea’s surface, deep blue shimmering under the last rays of sunlight. closing his eyes, he can almost hear the waves crashing on the rocks, washing the shore with its clear foam. 

the evening is filled with the sounds of laughter and signing, the troubadours and dancers warming up for the event. barmaids are carrying many pints of beer at once and the people are joyous like geralt’s never seen around this part of the continent. he doesn’t recognize any of the performers, but jaskier fills him in.

“—and that’s damia, she and i shared a couple lectures back at oxenfurt,” he explained, pointing his finger at the different people passing through. “that’s cedric, he’s... _interesting_. his voice is a little pitchy, though.”

geralt hums, taking a sip of his ale. jaskier’s voice gets drowned out by a roaring round of applause, as the first performer—sienna, jaskier had told him—starts playing, her voice honeyed and soft. 

they enjoy the various renditions, and jaskier smiles whenever he hears one of his own ballads on stage. the public is ecstatic when a particularly skilled singer offers his version of  _ toss a coin _ , though, in geralt’s opinion, no one compares to jaskier.

geralt’s busy carrying two tankards of ale when he sees jaskier talking to someone. the man is tall and lean, his hair slicked back with what seems a tremendous amount of oil, a malicious grin on his face. he’s got his hand on jaskier’s shoulder, though the bard seems less than enthusiastic to be part of this conversation.

“—yes, i know that already—ah, geralt!” jaskier says, sighing in relief, “this is my… _acquaintance_ ,” he says, vaguely gesturing to the man.

geralt lifts his eyebrows, pulling on an unimpressed face.

“valdo marx, the great troubadour of cidaris,” the man says, bowing exaggeratedly, “at your service. and you must be the white wolf, am i correct?”

geralt hums and passes one of the tankards to jaskier, who gulps down half its content. 

valdo turns, facing jaskier. “i see you found yourself a tame witcher, julian. a _rare_ find if there’s ever been one,” he says, an arrogant curl to his lip. “didn’t have much luck with normal people, eh?”

“fuck off, valdo. don’t you have some mediocre ballad to perform? do tell, so i can rip my ears off in advance.”

geralt sits back down on the grass, listening to jaskier and the irritant troubadour’s bickering, and takes a drink. if the man intends on joining them, he will  _ not  _ sit through it sober. 

“i  _ am  _ performing tonight, julian, though only at the queen’s request,” valdo says with a smile, and geralt can smell the vanity rolling off him in waves. “otherwise, i would  _ never _ waste my talents at such a plain gathering.” 

jaskier’s eyes are burning with rage, but somehow, he manages not to lose his composure. 

“oh, in that case, then, be on your way,” he tells him with the fakest grin geralt’s ever seen him pull. “i wouldn’t want to keep you, not when you must howl— _ sing  _ for the queen herself.”

seemingly pleased, valdo turns to leave, not without shooting one last look at geralt, who only glares at him. jaskier sits back down, and exhales loudly, downing the last of his ale. 

geralt clears his throat. “that’s valdo, then.”

jaskier hums in agreement, leaning back on his elbows, watching the dancers on the stage. 

“i can finally understand why you call him your arch-nemesis,” geralt says with a smirk, gently knocking his shoulder with jaskier’s. “he’s a dick.”

“yeah,” jaskier chuckles, “wait until you hear him sing. you’ll wish you were never born.”

“hmm.”

geralt glances at jaskier’s profile, his bronze curls shining under the moonlight, his cheeks flushed from the ale, eyes sparkling. he’s pointing at the stage— _ oh gods, one of the dancers fell! _ —but geralt’s looking at his hand. 

“i’m glad we came,” jaskier murmurs after a while, watching the waves do their endless dance, their rippling back and forth. “thank you.”

geralt nods and takes his hand, squeezing softly. 

“anytime.”


	6. daylight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: #2. your shirt/jumper was in the laundry pile and i couldn’t help but steal it. (geralt/jaskier).

Geralt wakes up slowly.

The straw mattress is itchy, and his arm is numb from sleeping on it all night, keeping to his side of the bed. Which is the polite thing to do, and of course, a rule Jaskier does not abide by. Okay, he _tries_. He settles on his side, leaving a small space between them, but eventually finds his way to Geralt, plastering himself against his back, his hands on Geralt’s hair. 

Which is very indecorous of him, but Geralt doesn’t mind. He likes it, actually, more than he’d care to admit. 

He opens his eyes, blinking a few times to get used to the clarity of the room, sunlight filtering in through the small window. It’s early, and Jaskier is, surprisingly, nowhere to be seen.

Confusion washes over him—did the bard leave in the middle of the night? Was he kidnapped? Would Geralt have to pay for his ransom? But he sees Jaskier’s lute carefully placed against a wall, an indicator that wherever Jaskier’s gone, he’s not so far away.

He can hear the soft sounds of the early morning, the cooks moving through the kitchen downstairs, the innkeeper sweeping the wooden floors, preparing for breakfast. Geralt’s stomach rumbles quietly, and he indulges in the mental image of warm oatmeal and fruit. Some time ago, he wouldn’t have allowed himself to spend time thinking about such luxuries, but right now, he’s half-asleep, and maybe the bard’s musings about enjoying life and its pleasures has rubbed off on him. Maybe.

Geralt stands up, lazily combing his hair with his fingers, looking for his leather tie. Jaskier makes him sleep with his hair down, _otherwise it gets knotty and I have to undo them_ , and Geralt would never admit to a living soul that it’s better that way. He’s crouching down next to his pack, looking for a clean shirt, when he hears the door open.

“Good morning!” Jaskier chirps, way too cheery and awake for this time of day, his hair tousled and his cheeks painted with a gentle blush.

“Hmm.” 

Geralt stands up and almost loses his balance when he takes in Jaskier’s figure. He’s barefoot and he’s got his sleeping trousers on, the ones that have gone soft and worn out with time on the Path. What Geralt fixes his gaze on is the oversized black shirt that’s hanging off his shoulder.

“Is that, um—are you wearing my shirt?” he says, his voice thick with sleep, a small frown knitting his brows.

Jaskier’s eyes go wide and he lets out a small laugh.

“Technically, I am,” he says, running his hand through his disheveled hair. “I—um, the innkeeper offered to take our laundry, and he asked so nicely I just _couldn’t_ say no, so I took our clothes down, but then I realized I had no clean shirts, so I _may_ have taken—”

He’s cut off by Geralt’s hands steadying his.

“It’s okay,” he says, softly. “You can keep it.”

Jaskier sighs contentedly and pats Geralt’s hand, making his way to the other side of the room. As the bard brushes past him, Geralt can smell his scent—honey and lavender and sweat—already imprinted on his shirt. 

He’d let Jaskier borrow his shirts any time.


	7. 21 questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from permanently-exhausted-witcher: #11. secret relationship. (geralt/eskel).

“Come on, witcher,” Jaskier slurred, his cheeks bright pink from the beer he’d been nursing, “you must have someone out there. I won’t believe you’re all on your own when we part for the winter. Who’s warming your bed?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, sipping his own tankard. He heard Eskel snort beside him, the bastard, indulging Jaskier’s drunk curiosity. 

“Come on!” Jaskier exclaimed, his eyes bright. “Eskel, _surely_ you know. Please, this evening has been dull enough, amuse me.”

Geralt arched his brow. “Witchers aren’t entertainment, bard.” 

Eskel put his hand up, silencing Geralt, who wrinkled his nose at him like a child. 

“Your bard might be up to something, Wolf,” he said, winking at Jaskier. “We’ll play a game. Ask questions and I’ll see if you’re on the right track.”

Jaskier gasped, delighted, and rubbed his hands together, thinking hard. Oh, Geralt was fucked. 

“Hmmm,” he fake-considered, as if he didn’t have the first question on the tip of his tongue. “Are they human?”

“No.” 

Geralt shifted in his seat, suddenly very interested in the intricate design of the mantelpiece.

“Okay… they’re not a monster, though, are they? Please tell me it’s not a succubus, Geralt.”

Geralt opened his mouth to speak, but Eskel beat him to it.

“No,” Eskel said with a grin, “though there’s nothing wrong with succubi, bard.” 

Jaskier sat back on his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Eskel waved at the barkeep, gesturing to his empty tankard.

“Not a human but also not a monster… what is there left?” Jaskier said, sounding defeated, but his face lit up as he considered another option. “Wait…”

“Another witcher!” he roared, beaming as Eskel gave him a nod. “Of course!”

Geralt felt his body burn, and buried his face in Eskel’s neck with a groan, almost by instinct. A moment later, he realized what he’d done, and pulled away, embarrassed. He’d given himself away.

Eskel’s hand pressed gently against his shoulder, a silent invitation to lay against him. He did, closing his eyes, waiting to hear Jaskier’s spluttering.

Except it didn’t come. Jaskier leaned back in his seat and looked at them with a small smile on his lips, his eyes soft and warm, his expression bordering on fond. 

Geralt felt Eskel rest his head against his own, and felt a smile tug at his lips. He was happy, and he knew Jaskier was happy for him too. 

“Anyway,” Jaskier said, “what was that about a succubus, Eskel?”


	8. silvermoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: #29. you’re leaving for something dangerous and i can’t help but kiss you. (geralt/jaskier).

Toussaint is loud.

Geralt’s in their room, windows closed, and even so he can hear the commotion on the street. Raucous laughter and loud, drunken singing. He closes his eyes, grounding himself, and starts getting dressed. He’s wearing his finest clothing tonight, black leather breeches and the cleanest shirt he owns, navy blue fabric stark against his pale skin. He combs his hair back, using a bit of the oil Jaskier had provided.

Once he’s done, he looks at himself in the mirror, snorting lightly when he sees his reflection. He looks so unlike himself it’s frightening — so neat and tidy, swords nowhere to be seen.

He makes his way downstairs, and passes by the stables one last time to check on Roach. 

“Don’t wait up,” he tells her, and she snorts, stomping her feet on the ground.

The streets are crowded with people, both poor and wealthy, enjoying the fresh summer night. Geralt walks, keeping a steady pace as his senses fill with noise. Children are playing and couples are dancing, the atmosphere so cheerful and light, Geralt can’t help but smile.

He arrives at the castle a while later, hoping he’s not too late. The guards eye him suspiciously but let him through, muttering under their breath. 

Music plays softly as he walks in the main hall, many distinguished nobles swaying together, deep in conversation. Some glare at him disapprovingly, but he’s only interested in the person whose music is filling the room, currently standing on the other side of the room.

Jaskier’s black doublet glitters against the candlelight, the simple yet delicate pattern standing out in its silver thread. His eyes are light blue and his cheeks are bright red, both from exertion and the wine he’d been carelessly sipping at during the feast. 

He finishes his song with a flick of his wrist, and the room bursts in applause. He smiles and excuses himself, grabbing a goblet from a passing servant. 

“Hello, gorgeous. Come here often?” 

Geralt snorts inelegantly, rolling his eyes at his bard’s attempt at flirting. 

“You’re no fun,” Jaskier says with a smile, and leans against the wall next to him, taking a sip of his wine. “You look dashing, though.”

Geralt smiles and leans closer, his nose brushing against Jaskier’s collar for a second, like he’s done a million times before. Jaskier’s scent is comforting, beneath the expensive perfumes he wears to royal courts, sweat and pine. Never fear, though Geralt picks up on minty nervousness.

“Is Valdo here?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

Jaskier grimaces. “He is, the bastard, and he’s playing right before me.” 

Toussaint was holding a bardic tournament of sorts—Geralt hadn’t really been listening—and Jaskier was there as the defending champion. He’d insisted that the witcher needn’t attend, that it would all be very dull and boring to him, but Geralt wanted to join him. There was something intoxicating about watching Jaskier play for a crowd, his dexterous fingers coaxing sweet sounds from his lute, his voice steady and melodic as he swayed to the rhythm. 

“You should have brought your swords, in case anything goes sideways.”

Geralt huffs a laugh. “I think you’re very capable of defending yourself with your lute.”

“Geralt! Wouldn’t you defend me? Whatever happened to _in sickness and in health?_ ” 

“We’re not married.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, sipping at his wine, and Geralt knows his plan worked; distracting the bard before a performance always proves easy.

“I’m up,” he says, turning to look at Geralt. “Wish me luck. Also, look out for me, it might get dangerous out there.”

Geralt takes a step forward, stroking the back of his palm against Jaskier’s flushed cheek. 

“Be careful,” he says, fighting back a smile.

“No promises.” 

Shaking his head, Geralt leans closer, pressing a small kiss to Jaskier’s pout. Jaskier kisses him back eagerly, laughing when Geralt pulls back. 

“Good luck.”


	9. light of my life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: #27. help me i’m being hit on at a bar please be my fake boyfriend for a second. (geralt/jaskier).

Taverns on this side of the Continent are undeserving of his talent, Jaskier decides. He’d poured his heart and soul into his songs, even composing a small, clever ditty about the _shitty_ hamlet and its _shitty_ monsters, and the patrons had had the audacity to heckle him, throwing their uneaten food at him. Unbelievable.

He leans against the bar, defeated, and takes a sip of watered-down ale. The tavern is crowded, people whispering about devils, and powerful hags, and oh how Jaskier wishes he could see such creatures for himself. He listened attentively to rumors and tales, scribbling the best stories on his notebook, sometimes adding a few details of his own, though he’d never had the pleasure of meeting one of these magical creatures. That didn’t stop him from wondering, though. 

He takes his songbook out, flipping through the pages. He settles on his last song, and he’s in the middle of crossing some words out when he feels someone sit down on the stool beside him. 

“Hey there, songbird.” A bearded man gives him a smirk, unabashedly looking him up and down, and Jaskier feels a shiver run through his spine. “Can I buy you a drink? Didn’t look like you made much coin on the stage.”

The man laughs loudly, clutching his chest, and Jaskier frowns, slightly annoyed at the man’s audacity to make jokes at his expense. 

“That’s kind of you,” he says through gritted teeth, uncomfortably shifting in his seat, “but I fear I must decline.”

Jaskier gives him a forced smile and closes his songbook, hopping off his stool. 

“Ah, leaving so soon?” the man says, catching him by the wrist, gripping hard. “And here I thought I’d be able to make you sing your highest notes in my room.” 

Jaskier tries to remain calm, feeling the man’s gaze tracking his every move, and looks around the tavern. Every table is occupied by big groups, except for one. 

“Oh! I’m so very flattered,” he says, swallowing hard, and forcefully shuffles out of the man’s grip. “But my, um… companion is waiting for me!”

The man lifts his eyebrows, clearly annoyed, and stands up next to him, their height difference making Jaskier tremble slightly. “You’re here alone.”

Jaskier laughs a touch too loud, and grips his notebook hard. There’s an empty seat in the booth next to the bar, and Jaskier walks backward until he feels his back hit the table, the man following him close. 

“I’m not here alone,” Jaskier says, gesturing to the white-haired man sitting at the table, who looks at them with an unimpressed scowl. “This is my travel companion, my partner in life… Marius.”

Before the man can even respond, Jaskier’s perching himself on the stranger’s lap, throwing his arms around his strong shoulders. And the stranger must immediately read the situation, because he wraps his arms around the bard’s waist almost on instinct.

“Hi, love,” he says, gazing at the stranger adoringly. “I missed you!” 

The bearded man scowls, but the stranger looks menacing enough that he leaves, not without shooting Jaskier a death-stare first. 

“ _Gods_ ,” Jaskier huffs, standing up as soon as the man is out of sight. “I’m terribly sorry for that, he just _wouldn’t_ leave me alone, and I saw you here, all alone, and I thought… well, I _didn’t_ think, really.” 

Calmer now, Jaskier allows himself to look properly at the man. His hair is strikingly white — _like moonshine_ , he thinks— and he’s fully clad in armor, a silver medallion hanging from his neck. When the man looks at him, piercing amber eyes clear in the sunlight filtering through the window, Jaskier can’t help but shudder. 

“So… thank you,” he says, biting his lip. “Can I buy you a drink for your troubles?” 

The man scoffs. “Leave, bard. You owe me nothing.”

“What if I just want to have a drink with the man who just _saved_ my life?” he exaggerates, “I’d like to get your name, at least, because as talented as I am, I’m no psychic, and you don’t really look like a Marius. Not really. Roger, maybe, or Eric—”

“Geralt,” the stranger says. “It’s Geralt.”

Jaskier looks at him, a small smile on his lips. He can feel his heart beating fast in his chest, his stomach fluttering with anticipation. Something tells him that Geralt can feel it, too. 

“Well, Geralt, it’s lovely to meet you,” he says, leaning forward. “I’m Jaskier.”


	10. intertwined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: #10. you confessed your feelings and we're about to kiss but we get interrupted. (geralt/jaskier).

“Tilt your head back a bit, I can’t reach your hair from here.”

Geralt does as he’s told, the warm water soothing his sore muscles, exerted from the hunt. He’s the same witcher he’s always been, fast and calculating — but somehow, he feels his focus falter slightly during a fight. The gashes on his back are living proof of it, his body moving a second too slow to avoid a strike, his mind struggling to follow.

Gentle fingers card through his hair, splattered with blood and mud, as Jaskier hums to himself. They’ve done this a million times, and Geralt knows their routine by heart, _chamomile or lavender?_ and _close your eyes_ and _let me see your wounds_. 

At first, he’d hesitated, half scared of getting too used to a touch that would never linger, half annoyed at himself for allowing such luxuries, but Jaskier’s reassuring smiles and comfortable chatter blew his insecurities away. And a witcher’s life was full of uncertainty, offering no space for expectations, but this — this Geralt knew to be true. He knew that no matter where the Path took them, Jaskier would always be waiting for him. 

Carefully rinsing Geralt’s hair, Jaskier pats his shoulder once. 

“This will leave a scar,” he says softly, tracing his finger over the edges of the wound. “Does it hurt?”

A few years ago, Geralt would’ve scoffed, shaking his head. 

“It stings a bit,” he concedes, turning his head slightly to catch Jaskier’s eyes. “There’s needle and thread in my pack.” 

Jaskier nods and dries his hands on his breeches, hopping off the stool he’d been sitting on. Geralt stands, drying himself off with a thin bath sheet, and puts on a fresh pair of breeches. He sits on the floor next to the tub, and watches Jaskier fumble with the straps of his bag.

As he crouches down next to the pack, rummaging through it, Geralt’s hit with a pang of longing. He can hear Jaskier mumbling to himself, the warm candlelight painting his hair a honeyed shade of gold, the entire scene so domestic and familiar, Geralt’s heart aches with it. 

“Thank you,” he blurts out, before he can stop himself, “For… for doing this. Taking care of me.” 

Jaskier grins, moving closer to him. “Of course, dear.” 

He settles behind Geralt and licks the end of the thread, a gesture that is so simple, yet carries such intimacy with it. 

“I wish I could do the same for you,” Geralt says, and he means it. He’s lost count of just how many times he’s fallen into Jaskier’s open arms battered and bruised, but he can’t really remember ever returning the favor. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, his voice small as he starts stitching Geralt’s skin together. “But you do.”

Geralt turns around, overwhelmed by the need to see his face, look into his eyes. Jaskier clicks his tongue, the needle slipping from his fingers with Geralt’s sudden movement, but waits patiently.

“I wish I could take care of you,” Geralt says, his voice low. “I’m no good with words, but I wish… I wish I could show you.”

“Show me what?” Jaskier whispers, his hands trembling slightly. 

“How much I love you,” he breathes like a confession, closing his eyes as he exhales, built-up tension leaving his shoulders.

He expects to feel fear, a foreign emotion to his kind, or panic; instead, relief washes over him like the rippling waves down at the coast. Those three words had been twirling in his mind for years, slowly making themselves at home in his heart, revealing themselves to him. And he can’t imagine a moment in time where his soul wasn’t intertwined with Jaskier’s, can’t remember his heart beating to something else than the bard’s slow breathing. 

Wet fingers find his face, tracing his jaw, the ridge of his nose, the soft spot under his ear. Geralt watches as ocean-blue eyes pierce into his, Jaskier’s thumb stroking gently against his cheek. The world seems to come to a halt, everything stilling except for the beating of their hearts, the rise and fall of their chests. Geralt offers a small smile, feeling his stomach flutter in anticipation, and Jaskier leans in, their foreheads pressed together.

Geralt parts his lips, Jaskier’s breath warm on his cheek, when he hears the door spring open. 

“Geralt!” Ciri exclaims, and Jaskier’s already leaning back, muttering something about a fallen needle. Ciri runs to him, falling into his lap. “I had a nightmare.”

Geralt huffs a laugh, putting his arms around her, gently rubbing her shoulders.

“You’re safe,” he whispers into her hair. “You’re safe with us.”

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” she says, sniffling. 

Geralt lifts his head and looks at Jaskier, a question written on his face. His expression is so fond, Geralt fears his bard might start crying — he fears he might, too. 

Meeting his gaze, Jaskier nods, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Of course, pup.”


	11. chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [original prompt from anonymous on tumblr](https://julek.tumblr.com/post/629361928034254848/consider-also-post-mountain-scene-geralt-seeks) / inspired by [this](https://witchersjaskier.tumblr.com/post/629277089635467264/i-absolutely-need-more-jaskier-in-darkblack) text post: i absolutely need more jaskier in dark/black clothes because i think it’s sexy and he WOULD be this edgy and dramatic to signify the mountain break up with his clothes.
> 
> i also wanna see geralt have a slight heart attack when he sees him dressed like that for the first time.
> 
> (geralt/jaskier).

“You know I wouldn’t be here if I could help it,” Geralt says in greeting, deliberately ignoring Yennefer’s pointed stare and gesturing to his armor, the rough stitching barely holding the leather together. “No tailor would fix it.”

Yennefer sighs, stepping aside to let him in. Her scent is everywhere, stronger than it’s ever been - lilac and gooseberries filling Geralt’s senses. He stumbles forward, setting his swords on a nearby table, and lets Yennefer inspect his armor.

“You did this yourself, huh?” she says, a smirk on her lips. “I’ll see if I have some thread left. Would rather not use my magic on you right now.”

Geralt takes her comment for what it is, and really, he deserves worse than light sarcasm. He certainly doesn’t deserve her kindness, not after the way things had ended; but then again, Yennefer’s always been one step ahead of him. He’s not yet ready to apologize—hasn’t found the right words—so he can only be grateful Yennefer hasn’t turned him to dust with one simple stare, hasn’t rendered him powerless.

He sits down on a small armchair, patiently waiting for Yennefer to return. He looks around the room, its stone walls decorated with beautiful, intricate tapestries, the wooden floors adorned with oversized rugs. He’s following the thin beam of light that enters through the window when he sees it: a dark, wooden door, almost camouflaged in the shadows of the room. He stands up to look closer when he notices the door is slightly ajar, light peeking through the crack.

Geralt looks back. Yennefer has not yet returned, and sure, she would be livid if she found out he’d been prying, but there’s something luring him in. Maybe it’s magic—he _is_ in a witch’s home, after all—but this feels different. There’s a faint, familiar pull in his gut, but it doesn’t feel like Yennefer’s magic at all - instead, he feels warm all over, his body moving of its own volition, drawn to whatever awaits for him there. 

And he’s a witcher - he knows better than to mess with chaos, especially Yennefer’s, especially considering the thin line he’s walking. But right now, all his focus is on whatever’s behind the half-closed door.

He strides forward, careful not to make noise, and pushes the door fully open. 

Whatever he’d been expecting—wild, exotic animals, a portal, or an entirely different dimension—it’s nothing compared to the sight of Jaskier draped on a large, velvet divan.

He’s laying comfortably on the couch, his hair tousled and longer than Geralt’s ever seen it. His impossibly tight leather breeches are taut against his thighs, leaving _very_ little to imagination, and he’s rolled up the fabric, exposing his shapely ankles, draped over the arm of the couch. Geralt’s eyes trail up his body and land on his shirt; a black, transparent blouse, complete with a silk knot at the front, except Jaskier’s undone it and his bare chest is on display. 

Geralt’s mouth is suddenly dry, and not all the Redanian wine in the Continent could ever sate his thirst. 

Jaskier’s watching him with a small smile, his eyes narrowed with curiosity. He takes a sip of his wine, painting his mouth a lovely shade of red Geralt can’t take his eyes off. 

“Like what you see, witcher?” he says smugly, licking his lips.

And Geralt’s not good with words - never has been. Right now is not the exception. 

“I, uh…” he mumbles, frowning at himself. He’s still processing the situation, but his body seems to move faster than his mind, and he finds himself pressing down the urge to reach forward and touch. “You…”

He hears footsteps coming down the hall, the tell-tale clicking of Yennefer’s heels, and swallows hard. 

“Ah, there you are,” Yennefer says, seemingly unimpressed by Jaskier’s body on display. “I found some thread. Come.”

Geralt blinks, trying to ground his senses. He turns to follow Yennefer to the main room, but glances back at Jaskier one last time.

Jaskier holds his gaze, defiantly, and Geralt feels his skin burn with sudden _want_.

Quickly, he shuts the door behind him. 

_Fuck._


	12. crowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: #35. "do you trust me?"   
> (geralt/jaskier).

Jaskier hummed a soft tune to himself as he folded his freshly-dried clothes. He ran his fingers through the linen of his sun-warmed shirt, straightening the worn hem, then placed the shirt on the log next to him, and moved on to the next item. His breeches —a rich, dark maroon colour— now divested of mud and the ever-present fleck of blood, joined the rest of the clothes, sitting on top of the pile. 

Destiny had once again surprised him, entwining his path with a witcher’s. Traveling from one village to another and sleeping under the stars in between, a lifestyle the bard would’ve frowned upon before he engaged in it, made him happy. Excited to see the world and in the company of an infamous witcher, Jaskier was living in a dream.

Wearing only his underclothes and his linen undershirt, Jaskier stood up and walked around their camp, going through his new routine as a travel companion. The afternoon sun filtered gently through the trees, painting his surroundings in a golden tint that almost seemed otherworldly. Jaskier looked up at the sky, light blue and clear, and smiled to himself.

He moved to Geralt’s pack, placing the folded black shirts on top of it. Geralt never asked him to wash his clothes, yet Jaskier always took them to the stream with him, almost as an afterthought. They were easy to wash and lacked the intricate patterns that distinguished the bard’s clothing, so, really, it was about efficiency — Geralt owned three shirts in total, and Jaskier could feel his irritation whenever he ran out of clean ones to wear. Geralt never asked, but Jaskier could see the twitch of his mouth whenever he found his clothes clean and folded, next to his bedroll. It was an unspoken arrangement — one Jaskier didn’t mind at all. 

A twig snapped in the distance, the tell-tale sign of Geralt’s return. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier greeted, his smile fading at the sight. “Dear _gods_ , witcher, what happened to you?”

Geralt slowly walked over to their fire, seemingly unfazed by the unholy amount of guts and blood clinging to his hair. 

“Selkiemore.” 

He sat down on a log, careful as not to splatter his clean clothes with blood, and ran his fingers through his matted hair.

“Washed the worst off,” he gruffed, “but I can’t get it off my hair.”

Jaskier could see that. He approached him and faintly touched his hair with one hand, unable to see past the tangle of guts, blood and mud. 

“I could try, if you’d like,” he said, pulling back with a grimace. “Though I don’t think it’ll get better than this.”

Geralt shook his head and sighed, his fingers pulling at the entangled strands.

“Not all the oil in the world would suffice, I’m afraid,” Jaskier continued, pensive. “You’ll have to live with selkie guts on your hair forever, wear them almost like a crown—wait, that’s a good line! _Heavy is the head that bears—_ ”

“Jaskier.”

“ _—the bloodied crown of victory,_ ” he scribbled down on his notebook, forgetting the actual topic of conversation. “Oh, yes, that’s a good allegory.”

Smiling, he put the notebook down, and watched Geralt frown at him. 

“Sorry! Yes, your hair,” he said, pacing their camp. “I could try washing it for you, or… we could, um… I could cut it?”

Geralt stopped pulling at the knots and shot him a bewildered look. 

“I keep a pair of scissors for when my hair gets too wild,” Jaskier timidly offered, “I could try cutting the worst of it off.”

Jaskier’d never seen Geralt tend to his hair, as a matter of fact. Sure, he’d wash the grime off it every once in a while, would spend hours detangling it by himself, but other than that, there was no actual self-care regime to follow. His hair was always the same length, too — though Jaskier’d never seen him cut it. Was it magic? A part of his mutations, perhaps?

It occurred to him that maybe Geralt didn’t want him to touch his hair. He was very particular about his swords, his armor, his potions — why wouldn’t his hair fall into the same category? A wolf never bared his neck without good reason, and even though Jaskier considered himself a lamb, he wasn’t so sure Geralt would agree. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, embarrassed, “I—I crossed a line. I didn’t mean to.”

Jaskier felt his face burn under Geralt’s gaze, but he willed himself not to look away. The witcher stood up slowly, and moved toward him. 

“You can, if you’d like to,” he said with a shrug, gesturing to his hair, then to Jaskier’s pack.

Jaskier let out a small sigh of relief, and started rummaging through his things, chattering idly to keep his nervousness at bay.

“…and still I never find them! I’m convinced there’s some kind of fairy living in my pack, stealing all my—aha!” he exclaimed, silver scissors shining against the firelight. “Okay. Ready?”

Geralt hummed, sitting cross-legged on his bedroll. Jaskier kneeled behind him, placing his hands on Geralt’s shoulders for support. He felt his muscles relax under him, the witcher exhaling softly. Jaskier hesitated; what if he ruined Geralt’s immaculate white hair for good? He’d never forgive himself.

As if reading his thoughts, Geralt turned his head slightly, catching Jaskier’s eye.

“Jaskier,” he murmured. “I trust you.”

The words settled inside Jaskier’s chest, who nodded curtly, a smile forming on his lips. _I trust you_. The words seemed innocuous, though there was something telling him their meaning laid deeper than he thought. He felt like he belonged, right there, in the middle of a forest, listening to the witcher’s steady breathing. 

With a snipping sound, strands of stained white hair started falling to the ground.


	13. wishbone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from permanently-exhausted-witcher: Geralt has fangs but never truly shows them and one time Jaskier makes him laugh so hard. And Jaskier sees his fangs for the first time.

_ It’s a beautiful day to walk the Path _ , Jaskier thinks. Spring had come in earnest, colorful blossoms dancing around in the low branches, round sparrows finding their way home after the winter. The warmth was enveloping, sunlight draping over the forest floors, long-forgotten in the dead of unforgiving snow.

They’re on their way to Temeria. Jaskier relishes the first moment he lays his eyes on Geralt, white hair and silver sword intact; dives into the warmth of their embrace after a long winter spent apart, the tip of his nose finding the crook of Geralt’s neck with ease. Still, what he enjoys the most are the days that follow their reunion — most precisely, the catching up that comes with them.

“And the rectoress had the _audacity_ to interrupt my class!” Jaskier says, incredibly put upon, his wrist twisting with every word. “I swear, you set a desk on fire _once_ and then you’re suddenly _‘not trustworthy’_ and _‘shouldn’t be left alone with students or faculty furniture’_. Bollocks.”

Geralt snorts through his nose, shaking his head lightly. He’s walking side by side with Jaskier, leading Roach by the reins. He, too, seems to be enjoying the delightful scenery and Jaskier’s animated chatter, the lines on his face crinkling at Jaskier’s jokes and the amber of his eyes clear in the afternoon sun.

“And _then_ ,” Jaskier adds, even more shocked than before, walking with his back to the road, facing Geralt for the full effect, “and then my students don’t know what to make of me, because of course—”

“Jaskier.”

“— _of course_ , they’ve learnt my reputation as one of Oxenfurt’s finest—”

“Please look at the road.”

“—scoundrels, as well as professors, but to _think_ they had to hear it from the _rectoress_ —”

Jaskier’s cut off by falling flat on his ass. Much like Geralt had predicted, he should’ve been looking at the road. Or,

“What the _fuck_ was that branch doing there? It had absolutely _no_ business laying about in the middle of such a busy road, Geralt, and—”

This time, he’s cut off by his favorite sound.

Geralt’s shoulders are shaking, his cheeks flushed a deep red, and he’s clutching his chest in uncontrollable laughter. Jaskier’s never seen anything like it, and it endears him to no end.

“Oi! Stop laughing and help me out, you heartless Witcher!”

His pleading only seems to make Geralt laugh harder.

The scene is ridiculous, really — Jaskier sitting on his backside on the dirty road, pouting, and Roach, seemingly unfazed by the situation, munching on some wildflowers as the Witcher laughs, and laughs, and laughs. He’s thrown his head back, and Jaskier can see the glint of sharp teeth, and oh—

Oh.

Fangs. Long, delicate, bone-white canines that drag over Geralt’s bottom lip when he laughs, that catch on a few loose strands of silver hair, that elongate Geralt’s face and draw attention to the column of his neck. Fangs that make him even more beautiful, if that’s possible.

And Jaskier wants to ask about them, see them glint in the firelight of their camp, feel them against his skin sometime, but there’ll be time for that. There has to be, because Jaskier can only look at Geralt and feel his heart expand in his chest, unbidden love trying to escape.

By the moment Jaskier finally stands up and brushes dust off his breeches, Geralt’s laughter has subsided. He’s pressing his lips together in a firm line, though, so Jaskier’s not so sure he’s not laughing at him still.

“Oh, okay, fine, I get it,” Jaskier says with a goofy grin, because he just can’t help himself, “let’s see if next time I’ll catch you when you fall.”

Geralt smirks. “I did warn you.”

“That you did.”


	14. ruby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from anonymous: #23. “Just tell me why you did it!” “Because I’m in love with you, okay?”  
> (geralt/jaskier).

Snow is falling hard by the time they get to the inn. It had taken them by surprise; the winds had turned in a matter of seconds, the prospect of a sunny autumn afternoon twisting into a rather cold one as Jaskier buried his nose under his scarf and Geralt tightened his cloak around his shoulders.

He’s in charge of negotiating their stay; with winter looming close, their coin pouch is lighter than he’d be comfortable with, but the innkeeper seems rather satisfied with the idea of Jaskier playing during dinner. It’d be good to warm the room up, he admits.

Geralt heads upstairs just as Jaskier’s coming down, lute in hand and a bright smile plastered on his face. Excitement and nervousness smother his usual scent, and Geralt bites back a smile.

“Good luck,” he whispers as they stand on the same step, their eyes meeting. He leans forward and presses a small kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. “Sorry I won’t stay for the show. I’m exhausted.”

Jaskier smiles. “It’s alright, love. I’ll find you when I come up, yeah?”

With that, he hops down the stairs, already strumming a soft tune.

Geralt opens the door to their room and steps in with a weary sigh, thankful to sleep on a real bed for the night. He sets his swords down, next to the crackling fire, and is taking his boots off when he sees it.

It’s a small thing, a simple yet delicate linen bag tied with a brown leather band — and Geralt could’ve mistaken it for another one of Jaskier’s trinkets, but there’s no missing the single G written onto the fabric next to a small doodle of a wolf, both in Jaskier’s expensive ink he insists on buying whenever they pass through Novigrad.

Geralt takes the bag in his hand, measuring its weight and wondering if he should open it. It’s clear it’s meant for him, intentionally left behind for him to find. If he tries, he can still smell Jaskier’s scent in the air, lavender and sweat and the soap he uses to wash his scarf.

Shaking his head, he unties the leather band, carefully setting it aside, and reaches inside. It’s one of Jaskier’s rings, the one he’s had since they first met, all those years before, when Jaskier was nothing but a bard in search of a story, and Geralt was nothing but a Witcher unwilling to share his — or so he’d thought. The silver ring looks small on his palm, its dark red patterned stone changing shapes in the firelight.

It barely fits on his pinky —gets stuck on the first knuckle— but he leaves it anyway. He sits down on the bed, warmth spreading from where the ring meets his skin, and closes his eyes, letting it run through his entire body. Jaskier does that, he’s learned: sees through every crack and crevice and finds the way to fit into them, to fill the gaps. To stay.

Geralt sits still for a while, hearing Jaskier’s performance downstairs, letting the soft lull of his voice wash over him like sunlight. He should undress, get out of his damp clothes and prepare for bed, but he wants to stay a while longer. Slowly, the music fades away, and Geralt can hear people retiring to their rooms. He waits until the common room is empty, nothing but a soft humming and familiar footsteps climbing up the stairs. He traces the stone with his hand.

“Hi, dear,” he hears, and smiles, opening his eyes. Jaskier looks beautiful — flushed and sweaty and free. Always free.

“Come here,” Geralt murmurs, reaching for him, and Jaskier takes him by the hand, settling on Geralt’s lap with a content sigh.

“Hi,” he repeats, their noses bumping together.

Geralt snakes an arm around his waist, gently placing his hand on Jaskier’s cheek, his thumb lightly stroking. They stay in silence for a while, sharing breaths, Jaskier looking intently into Geralt’s eyes. He takes Geralt’s hand in his, his fingers searching until they reach the ring.

“You found it.” He brings Geralt’s hand up to his face and kisses his finger.

“Did you want me to?”

“I did.”

Geralt closes his eyes and exhales, pressing his forehead against Jaskier’s.

“Why did you do it?”

Jaskier shifts his weight in his lap and tucks a loose strand behind Geralt’s ear, running his fingers through his stubble.

“I’m in love with you”, he says, clear and simple. It always is. “I’m in love with you, but sometimes I fear you’ll forget.”

Geralt looks at him with a frown. “I won’t. I couldn’t.”

“I won’t always be with you,” Jaskier says with a sad smile. “Even though I’ll always want to. I always do.”

Jaskier fidgets with the collar of Geralt’s shirt, scrunching up the fabric only to smooth it over. Geralt’s heart aches inside his chest, his mind stumbling over his words, trying to read between the lines.

“I’ll follow you anywhere you want me to,” Jaskier murmurs, tears brimming in his eyes. “And if I can’t, I’d still like you to take me with you, every step of the way.”

Geralt reaches between them and wipes a fallen tear from Jaskier’s cheek, emotion threatening to overcome him. The ring feels suddenly heavy on his finger, though he knows they’ve got time — all the time destiny will offer. He’ll take it all.

“I will,” he whispers, and knows it’s true. “I promise. I’ll love you every step of the way.”

Jaskier sniffles and lets out a wet laugh, pressing a soft kiss to Geralt’s forehead.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I’ll still haunt you, though.”

Geralt huffs a laugh. He knows.

“Please do.”


	15. liminal spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from kueble: #25. Being somewhere you’re not supposed to be + #37. “You’re stuck with me, like it or not.”  
> (geralt/jaskier). rated M.

They’re at another banquet, Duke Bastian’s daughter’s niece’s friend’s engagement, Geralt thinks, and, as has become custom, he’s been dragged along for the ride.

Jaskier’s performance has long since ended, though, and he doesn’t know why the bard insists on him staying — there are no monsters to slay that he’s aware of, except maybe some of the nobility that’s so swiftly moving across the dance floor. Besides, Geralt reasons, there seem to be no blatant enemies of Jaskier lurking in the shadows, a miracle if Geralt’s ever seen one, that the bard’s name remains unscathed in at least one tiny part of the Continent.

He swirls his goblet in his hand with disinterest, even though the wine is good and rich on his tongue. He hasn’t seen Jaskier for a while, having lost sight of him after the eleventh cup he’d spiked with White Gull, to make the evening more endurable.

Suddenly, his train of thought is cut short by a pair of strong hands tugging on his collar, leading him backward into a small side room.

“Jaskier?” He grunts out, still dizzy and disoriented. Silently, he chides himself for letting his guard down in public in such a manner, but then there are hands pressing against his mouth and he finds that he doesn’t care, really.

“Shh! He’s here.” Jaskier shout-whispers.

Geralt frowns. “Who’s here?” His voice is muffled by Jaskier’s hand.

“Valdo Marx,” Jaskier whispers into his ear. “That bastard knew I’d be playing here, knew the duke’s daughter’s niece’s friend’s engagement was the talk of the town, knew I’d be…”

Jaskier voice blends into the background, Geralt too focused on his surroundings to make an effort to listen. The room is cramped and full of supplies of various purposes, shelves presses into every wall, leaving them in the middle of the room, chests pressed together. There’s a small window, moonlight pouring in, Jaskier’s face washed in the pale light. He’s gesticulating wildly, and his hair is ruffled from running his hands through it, his skin glowing with sweat from his previous performance. He looks just a touch unhinged, his emerald doublet now undone, displaying his chest and strong forearms. Geralt’s mouth waters at the sight.

“…which is why we’re hiding in here now, Witcher.”

Geralt blinks. “We?”

“Yes, Geralt, we,” Jaskier says, exasperated. “So that bastard doesn’t find me. And if he sees you, he’ll know I’m here somewhere, because there’s no reason on this godsforsaken Continent you’d be at a ball by your own volition— not that I forced you to come, mind you, it’s just— you’re stuck with me, like it or not.”

Geralt feels his heartbeat against his chest, and, by the way its sluggish thrum has progressed to a steady rhythm throughout Jaskier’s explanation, he’s certain the bard can feel it, too.

“I like it,” he breathes.

Jaskier moves closer still, and they’re pressed together from shoulder to knee. “Is that so, Witcher?”

His scent is overwhelming in its sweetness, deep and rich like wild berries on a summer day, and Geralt wants to drown in it. Their mouths are a breath apart, and the distance could be easily closed, if they wanted to.

“Hmm.” Geralt lets his eyes roam over Jaskier’s body, lets the want show. All or nothing. “What do you think, bard?”

Something in Jaskier’s gaze darkens and he lurches forward, his mouth crashing against Geralt’s in a kiss that’s full of teeth and tongue and sheer want. Geralt kisses back with matched intensity, his hands winding over Jaskier’s waist, tugging him closer as he tastes the sweet wine from earlier and a hint of mint, all combined into pure desire that Geralt licks from his mouth.

They pull apart panting, their foreheads pressed together. Geralt shifts his weight, and Jaskier lets out a low groan as Geralt’s thigh presses between his own.

“How long will Marx be out there?”

Jaskier smirks, his lips gleaming with spit and a dangerous glint to his eye. “Long enough.”

Geralt’s fingers find the laces of Jaskier’s breeches and stay there, taunting. “Good thing we’re stuck here, then.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier agrees, and kisses him again.


	16. fool's gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> original prompt from ohnomybreadsticks: #16. After the first date + #27. “Sorry. You’re just… really adorable.”  
> (geralt/jaskier).

“Geralt. _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier says, gasping for air as fat tears roll down his cheeks, roaring laughter at the back of his throat. “They kicked us out.”

The Witcher’s staggering behind him, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter, sharp canines glinting in the moonlight as they move away from the tavern.

“I can’t believe we got kicked out,” Jaskier sucks in a breath, “because of _Roach_.”

Geralt shakes his head, his arms seeking Jaskier’s body as the bard leans against a crumbling wall, unable to walk straight as he snorts inelegantly and lets laughter rumble through his chest.

“I mean,” he says, breathless as Geralt leans his weight on his body, and his fingers find the Witcher’s hair. “We’ve been kicked out for my singing or my romantic nature, or you coming in smelling like guts and death, or, you know… the whole being a Witcher thing.”

Geralt huffs a laugh against his neck.

“But,” Jaskier continues, “never has an innkeeper found himself forced to remove us from his establishment because of a horse. A horse!”

“She didn’t even bite his mule,” Geralt agrees. “She was just tryin’ to make nice.”

“Hmm, I know,” Jaskier says, then presses a kiss to Geralt’s forehead. “Sorry our first real date turned out to be a disaster. And that we got kicked out and will probably sleep in the woods tonight.”

Geralt shrugs. “‘S fine.”

But then he pulls back and he’s pouting, the big, strong, scary Witcher with two swords at his back and monster blood on his hands, looking up at Jaskier with a small frown and his lips turned downwards. The bard tries to bite back a smile, grateful that his laughter has subsided.

“What?” Geralt asks, his frown deepening.

Jaskier can’t help the giggles that escape from his mouth. “Sorry, sorry, you’re just… really adorable. Looking all disgruntled.”

“I wanted it to be romantic,” Geralt says, looking down at his boots. “We were supposed to drink wine tonight, and have a fancy meal by the candlelight, and then— then you’d get all warm and happy and sleepy like you always do after dinner and we’d go upstairs and…”

“And what?”

“Cuddle,” Geralt finishes, his voice small, and Jaskier feels his heart dissolve into a heap of mush.

“Oh,” he says, tugging Geralt close again. “I love you. Fancy meals or not.”

“Hmm.”

“I mean it— there’ll be plenty of other opportunities to spoil me rotten, I assure you, ones Roach won’t interrupt. But if this is the way our first one goes, then I’m happy.”

“Yeah?”

Jaskier kisses the tip of Geralt’s nose. “Of course. I’ll never forget it.”

“I love you too,” Geralt whispers, then kisses the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Jaskier grins. “I can’t wait.”

“But for now,” Geralt says, pulling back but lacing his fingers through Jaskier’s, walking along the path down to the woods. “Charred squirrel is all I can offer you.”

Roach slowly trails behind them, her tail swishing and her head hanging low — she knows what she’s done. Jaskier brings Geralt’s hand to his mouth, and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“Charred squirrel it is.”


End file.
